


Trophies in Jars

by EAI



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Gore, Dark Magic, Disturbing Themes, Earth-something verse, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Len is Citizen Cold who happens to be a Detective, M/M, Mental Instability, Supernatural Elements, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-16 23:14:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11839014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EAI/pseuds/EAI
Summary: diabolist (plural diabolists)1. dealings with or worship of the devil or demons.2. a person who performs supernatural.or.there is a diabolist hidden on the outskirts of central city – feasting, hunting for new pounds of flesh, new set of limbs… a new and perfect, still beating heart.





	Trophies in Jars

**Author's Note:**

> unbeta'd, english is not my first language. this is my first attempt on allenbert, because i am currently obsessed with tom felton <3 
> 
> also, this is an introductory chapter to start/warn you for what's to come, similar to what i've done to most of my other fics. other additional tags will be added, and i rate the work as 'E' for obvious gore reasons, very disturbing ideas and implications and eventual smut - because i'm too tired to change said rating in the future. 
> 
> it's short and i'm really sorry, but if you're interested, you're in for a real treat ;D 
> 
> let us enjoy this little snippet!

 

 

 

**Hack! Hack!** _Scrape_.

Disappointed. Terribly disappointed. And she was gorgeous too. A rare form of beauty for a person so young! Her eyes, bright like the sky. Looking at him so _seductively_ , drinking him in. It was intense - and the sex was great. Too bad she didn't last long. She had a lot of potential. He gagged when those two blue orbs of hers turned grey, it was a hideous color. So bland. But what to do when exquisite creatures like her were made to disintegrate so quickly. He wasn't fast enough to preserve most of her organs, unfortunately. She was already bloating. 

He was yet to find a new specimen. Maybe he should keep them alive next time. 

And her skin...

Marred with cuts and bruises, and her sweet, sweet blood. What used to be so vibrant and flushed, now looked so pale. 

...Oh, dear. Such a waste.

Mildly he thought, maybe he should keep her skin. Just in case he might need it, just in case he needed to patch... something. Her body was a canvas, and this was his masterpiece. He drew them himself. With a letter opener, a very _sharp_ letter opener. He should be famous soon. It wouldn't be long now. 

**Hack! Hack!** _Scrape_.

What was he doing again? Oh, yes.

Her fingers. He sucked on them not too long ago. And he shivered at the lingering taste of her cum in his mouth. 

Soft digits.

Thin.

Long.

Perfect nails.

He needed those. He should remove them carefully.

**Hack! Hack!** _Scrape_.

Now for the toes…

 

*

 

 

 

The bathroom looked like a slaughterhouse.

Charlotte Ann. 16. Found dead in a rundown motel by the old owner.

And it was as if she was put on display for all to see. A horrifying sight of a decomposing, crimson figure sitting crookedly on a wooden chair. Her jaw was broken, merely hanging on threads of muscles. Limbs mangled. Skin torn off. Bones and flesh exposed, stomach and intestines jutting out. The smell so sharp and acrid, like chemicals eating away the tissues. Curled mess of blonde hair.  

Empty eye sockets.

Missing fingers and toes on her hands and feet, chopped clean.

And Julian stood frozen by the door, staring at the body, as if it would move and scare him once he stepped into the bathroom. It was a sight he would never forget, perhaps the first crime scene he ever had that was committed so brutally. He raised his eyes to read the writings on the white-tiled walls. Words he might or might have not seen or heard before.

“Julian?”

Breaking out of his haze, he turned to the voice and was relieved that it was just Leonard Snart, or Len, the detective in charge of tonight’s investigation – who happened to be one of his closest friends. He seemed a little worn and disheveled, with a good pinch of worry etched on his nevertheless, handsome face. He looked like he hadn’t gotten home in days.

“Yes?” he said, clearing his throat.

Len frowned, “You all right?”

“Yes, yes, I’m all right,” Julian tried with a smile, but when Len replied him with a raise of his eyebrow, he simply shrugged. “Got the call when I was running errands, I have the right to look a little occupied. There’s a growing list of grocery shopping that I have to do, what with Barry’s pit-less stomach and all.”

“Uh-huh. And where is Barry anyway?” The detective crossed his arms. “I thought today’s your day off. Hence, of course, the outfit.”

Julian looked down on his clothes; jeans, a t-shirt that said _‘Slytherclaw AF’_ and a cardigan. Oh, and Barry’s sneakers. He sighed, putting down his equipment. “Can’t do anything when my one’s truly is out saving the world. And I’m here making sure he doesn’t get fired.”

Len chuckled, exaggerating a bow. “Then please accept my most humble admiration for your loyalty and patience for dear, old Bartholomew. But in all seriousness, I suggest that we’ll have Barry to help us with this case. It turns out to be bigger than I anticipated.”

Julian took another glance at the corpse inside the bathroom, still he didn’t dare to step in without the coroner (where was he anyway?). “Yes, I quite agree with you. This is rather ghastly.”

“And I’m not supposed to tell you this, because Captain Singh hasn’t given me the green-light yet, but I’ll tell you anyway.” Closing the front door behind him, Len ran a hand down his tired face as he leaned against the wall. “We’ve got a serial killer on the loose. A possible meta-human, or maybe our killer’s just a plain psychopath. And that poor darling inside that bathroom over there, is his third victim.”

“T-Third?” he stuttered.

He nodded. “Unfortunately. Joe called in about an hour ago, two sisters are found dead in their apartment. Stripped to their bones. No eyes, no skin. No fingers. No toes. Badly decomposed. Bodies are three weeks-old.”

Julian turned to study the corpse again, seemed too fresh to be a month-old. Then he recalled about smelling chemicals. Preserved, embalming agent perhaps?

“But how do you know ours and Joe’s are related?”

Len walked over to him, looked into the bathroom and gestured at the writings littered on the walls. He read, “ _Mors tua, vita mea_. Joe found the exact same quote written on the sisters’ door. I would say it meant nothing but apparently, the landowner got himself nearly burned to death when he pried the door open. Magic, the neighbors said. Good thing you didn’t step in, you could’ve been burned.”

“And you didn’t bother to warn me when I arrived here?”

Len snorted. “I warned you. You didn’t listen. You were too ‘occupied’, remember? We have to scratch out the words before coming in. The question is, how.”

Julian rolled his eyes, then looked back at the writings. “It is strange.” Then he translated, “ _Your death, my life_.”

Strange and confusing. The words gave out the impression of sacrifice and exchange, but what was the magic for? Was it to fend away unwanted visitors? Or to protect something hidden? And he was sure he heard someone saying, mumbling, muttering the words before, in a dream maybe. But when Julian turned to Len, the detective bore the expression that he rarely had when something truly bothered him. The last time Julian ever saw Len wearing this face was five months ago.

“Len?” he carefully touched Len’s arm, frowning at the slight tremble.

“…I have a really bad feeling about this.”

 

 

 


End file.
